The Long Hard Road Out of Hell

“Hey, it’s Trent.”
    And I’m like, “Hey, what’s going on.”
    And he said, “Well, you’ll never believe where I’m at. I’m living at the Sharon Tate house.” It was funny because when I first met him I told him that one of my dreams was to record “My Monkey,” our revision of a Charles Manson song, at the house where Sharon Tate had lived. I liked the irony of it. And lo and behold, Trent was there now.
    He said, “Why don’t you come out? We’re shooting a video for one of my songs, and I want you to play guitar in it.”
    I told him, “Well, I don’t really play guitar.” But I went out there anyway and pretended to play guitar in a video that was never actually released. It was a song called “Gave Up.”
    Then he signed you to Nothing?
    Actually, I still didn’t know that Trent was starting a label. We just hung out and had a great time, and that’s when we really became close and established our friendship.
    Can you remember anything more specific about that time?
    I remember one night Trent ditched his girlfriend, a rich teenaged bitch who had become so obsessed with him that she tattooed his initials on her butt, and we went to a bar in L.A. called Smalls, where we met some girls that today I wouldn’t even let take out my garbage. But at the time they seemed like people worth wasting my efforts trying to fuck because I didn’t know any better.
    Actually, we weren’t really interested in sex. We were more interested in having fun because we had this new friendship. So we invited these two terrible individuals back to his house, and I remember one of their names was Kelly, which I found interesting because, like her face, it could have belonged to a man or a woman. We went on to make a videotape which I’ve since lost. But it was known only as “Kelly’s Cornhole.” You can imagine why.
    No, I can’t. Please tell me.
    Well, what we did was we pulled a trick that I’ve become quite famous for. It is pouring a large glass of tequila for your adversary, or your victim, and then pouring a large glass of beer for yourself and pretending that yours is tequila also. You convince them to drink down their large glass until they vomit and pass out and are left to be tormented. A similar trick had been done to me when I was young.
    So the trick worked, as it always does, and Kelly and her friend were drunk and running around the lawn where Sharon Tate’s friends had been murdered. They jumped in the pool and somehow I was convinced to join them. That’s something I don’t like to do because I don’t know how to swim. So I was in the pool with this sea bass, I suppose you could call her. By smell she was some sort of porpoise fish-woman, and by sight she looked like a water behemoth. Trying to create some sort of entertainment for everybody, I said, “Why don’t we play Guess Who’s Touching You? We’ll put a blindfold on you and try to figure out whose hands are on you.” So Trent and I take this sea bass back into his living room. The other girl had since passed out and was hopefully drowning in her vomit.
    We blindfolded the sea creature. No, I think we just wrapped a towel around her head, which also covered up her face and made us both feel better. Not that her body was any greater than her face. It was all terrible. I grow ashamed of myself right now as we speak of this.
    So we started squeezing her nipples and prodding around her genitals and what-have-you. We were laughing because we were both drunk, though not nearly as drunk as she was. In the background a Ween album was playing, “Push the little daisies and make ’em come up…” as me and the young Trent Reznor poked our fingers into the birth cavity of a bizarre fish lady in search of some sort of caviar. But what we ended up finding was a mysterious nodule—maybe it was white fuzz or a piece of corn—that she had on the outer region of her rectum. It horrified us and we looked at each other with disgust and shock. But we knew that we must continue with our debasement of this poor unsuspecting person. So I found a cigarette lighter, and I started to burn her pubic hair. Though it didn’t hurt her, it didn’t help things smell any better than they already did.
    Unfortunately, there isn’t any real climax to this story other than I think that she wanted